


You Look Great

by ecaitlin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecaitlin/pseuds/ecaitlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre needs help getting dressed for a date. Courfeyrac can't say no to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Look Great

 

Courfeyrac startles from his nap when someone knocks on his door. He's curled up with a comic spread out on the bed beside him, all of his clothes still on. He's been in bed for the better part of the afternoon and, apparently, judging by the time on the alarm clock on his bedside table, the beginning of the evening too.

"Come in," he calls sleepily, running a hand through his hair as he sits up.

The door opens slowly, creaking as it always does, and to Courfeyrac's surprise it's Combeferre who peaks just his head in the room, not Enjolras like he'd expected. "Hey, did I wake you?"

"No, I was reading," Courfeyrac says quickly, holding up the comic. "Technically. But shouldn't you be out on your date?"

That date is sort of why Courfeyrac is in bed right now, instead of sprawled out on the couch or bugging Enjolras and Combeferre to go out with him, or already out with some of their other friends. Courfeyrac is, admittedly, a little jealous.

Okay, a lot jealous, but he doesn't want to bring Combeferre down because of it. He's  _happy_  for Combeferre, he truly is. Combeferre is— he's brilliant, and wonderful, and gorgeous in a guy-you-bring-home-to-meet-your-parents kind of way. He's the type of guy who deserves to go on as many dates as he wants, to fancy restaurants that need  _reservations_  and cost more for a glass of wine than an entire meal at the kind of place Courfeyrac would take a date.

So Courfeyrac has banished himself to his room to keep his dreary mood from bringing Combeferre down, and maybe to hide it from Enjolras too because Enjolras is fairly perceptive when it comes to  _other people's_  emotions (even if he isn't the greatest with his own) and Courfeyrac really isn't in the mood for a heart-to-heart about his feelings for his best friend right now. His bedroom is the safest place to be, given the fact that he doesn't feel up to leaving the apartment tonight either.

"That's possibly why I'm here," Combeferre admits, sounding sheepish. "I can't figure out what to wear."

Courfeyrac's lips twitch and he sits up a bit straighter. "What're you wearing now?"

Combeferre pushes open the door to reveal that he's wearing… nothing, really. A pair of boxers (Courfeyrac swallows) and socks; nothing else. "Help me?" he asks.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "You always wear nice clothes," he says as he gets off the bed. "What's the problem tonight?"

"The problem tonight is that normally I dress for myself," Combeferre answers. "Tonight I'm dressing for someone else, aren't I? I want to make a good impression, and you're better at these kinds of things than I am."

Courfeyrac is so careful not to touch Combeferre at all as he leaves his room, heading for Combeferre's. He passes Enjolras' closed door and kind of wishes Combeferre had went to him for help instead, because the last thing Courfeyrac wants to do is dress Combeferre up to impress someone else, but at the same time he doesn't. He's happy to help; he's genuinely, truly happy to help Combeferre. His own petty, jealousy-causing crush aside, Combeferre is his best friend. Courfeyrac would do anything for him,  _anything_ , and helping him pick out an outfit for a date isn't the worst thing he could ask for.

"Holy shit," he says when he gets to Combeferre's room. He hears the door shut behind him and turns to look at Combeferre, who leans against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest. "What did you  _do_?"

There're clothes everywhere, strewn about the room. They hang off the bed, lay on the floor, are falling out of the closet. Courfeyrac had no idea Combeferre even owned this many articles of clothing. And it's such a shock to see his room like this because Combeferre is something of a neat freak, most of the time. Everything in has a place and everything should be in that place, or whatever he's always preaching when Courfeyrac leaves his shoes by the door instead of on the mat.

"I told you I needed help," Combeferre reminds him.

"Clearly." Courfeyrac surveys the room this time, taking inventory. "Where are you going?"

"Dinner at  _Batifole_ ," Combeferre says, unsurprisingly. "I figured we'd go for a stroll afterwards. It's a nice neighborhood, and there's a café not far from it where we could stop and get drinks before we part ways."

"Fancy enough for the restaurant," Courfeyrac says distractedly, eying a suit hanging in the closet, "but casual enough to go for walk. I can manage that."

"Apparently I can't," Combeferre says, gesturing around. "I've changed four times."

" _Four_?" Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow as he picks up a tie hanging off the dresser. It's thin and red and too bright for the look Courfeyrac is trying to put together. "Nervous, 'Ferre?"

"What makes you think that?" When Courfeyrac looks back at him, Combeferre is fidgeting a bit. "I've nothing to be nervous about. I've known my date for quite a while. We have class together. I'm sure things will go fine."

Despite the part of him that recoils from talking about this, he can't help but tease, "So changing four times before a date is just the norm for you, then?"

Combeferre gives him a blank look. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Yeah, yeah." Courfeyrac waves him off in favor of picking up a crisp white button-up that lies neatly on the bed, like Combeferre didn't have it in him to throw it around like the rest of his stuff. "Put this on," he says, holding it out without looking because the longer Combeferre goes without a shirt, the less sane Courfeyrac is going to be. "I'll figure out the rest."

In his drawers Courfeyrac finds mostly khaki pants, an entire drawer of neatly folded boxers, briefs,  _and_  socks (because Combeferre is the type of person who folds his socks) and another drawer of shirts. Somewhere in the midst of khaki he finds two pairs of jeans, and he pulls them out, inspecting.

One pair is too light for the ensemble he's going for, but the other pair is dark-wash, such a deep blue that they're nearly black. They're perfect.

"Here," he says, tossing the jeans to Combeferre. "These should work."

"Jeans?" Combeferre sounds skeptical.

"Trust me," Courfeyrac says. "You still have that blazer I borrowed for Cosette's party last year, right? The blue one?"

"In the closet."

Courfeyrac finds the blazer hanging in the closet, hands it off to Combeferre, and holds up his finger before hurrying back down the hall to his own room. He finds his navy tie amongst a handful of others and smooths it out, nodding to himself. That, paired with the rest of the outfit and a dress shoe, should work. Casual, but not too casual. Sophisticated, but not too sophisticated.

When he returns to Combeferre's room he finds Combeferre dressed in the outfit he picked out. The jeans hug his thighs more than his preferred khakis every do, and Combeferre has always been a sight to see in a button-up and a blazer. He looks— he looks good enough that Courfeyrac curses himself for doing this, because there's no way Combeferre's date stands a chance. He'll probably woo whoever it is before they even get to the restaurant, and Courfeyrac will probably have to put up with them coming around the apartment, cuddling on the couch, drinking coffee in their kitchen the next morning in one of Combeferre's older t-shirts.

But if that's something that would make Combeferre happy then it's something that will make Courfeyrac happy, too.

"You look good," he says, nodding appraisingly. "Got you a tie to tie it all together."

Combeferre chuckles, taking it, and Courfeyrac realizes that there's something off with the outfit. It doesn't look how he imagined it and that's because Combeferre's tucked in the shirt. It makes the whole thing look too stuffy, not as laid-back, casually dapper as Courfeyrac wants.

Without even thinking, Courfeyrac reaches out and pulls at the shirt until it's no longer tucked in. His knuckles brush Combeferre's bare hip and Combeferre, in the middle of tying his tie, freezes, going stiff.

"Sorry," Courfeyrac mumbles. "It didn't look right."

"You'd know better than me," Combeferre says, voice wavering just a bit. His fingers fumble over his tie and he sighs, giving Courfeyrac a hopeful look. "Mind tying it for me?"

Courfeyrac grins, glad that he's never been much of a blusher because if he were he'd be blushing like crazy right now. "What, forgotten how?" he mocks, reaching for the ends of Combeferre's tie. They're so close right now, close enough that Courfeyrac has to look up to meet Combeferre's eyes, and he's always sort of liked that about the two of them.

"Thought you might be more equipped to handle it," Combeferre says softly.

Courfeyrac makes a sound of agreement, watching his hands as he carefully knots the tie, taking much longer than he normally would to make sure it's absolutely perfect. He can't look up just yet, not until he's farther away, far enough that he won't be able to pick out the spot just below Combeferre's ear that he missed when shaving, or each and every one of his eyelashes. It'd be too dangerous.

He can't resist smoothing his hands down the front of Combeferre's shirt when he's done, though. He's letting himself have this one thing, and then he goes to pull back, he really does, but Combeferre sucks in a breath and he looks up and he's so, so fucked.

Their eyes meet and Courfeyrac's brain just— _pfft_ , it totally fucking shuts down like a computer that's overheated and just gives up. He blinks, dazed, and Combeferre's lips are so close to his, so fucking close, close enough that if he just tilted his head up, leaned forward a bit, he could kiss him.

And he does, hardly even meaning to. He slots their mouths together easily, softly, fingers curling in Combeferre's shirt. Combeferre, to his surprise, kisses  _back_. His hands work their way into Courfeyrac's hair, gentle, careful not to pull, and he leans down until they're pressed together perfectly.

Courfeyrac pulls back, realizing what he's just done, and clears his throat. "There," he says roughly, putting as much distance between himself and Combeferre as he can. "Your date is going to pass out when they see you. You look great."

"Thanks to you," Combeferre tells him.

"That's what I'm here for, isn't it?" He pats Combeferre on the shoulder. "Go go 'em, tiger."

And, because there's only so much he can take, he ducks out of the room, once again hiding in his own. He leans against his door, eyes closed, and forces himself to breathe. Absently, he brings his fingers to his lips and curses himself for doing what he did. He has no right to kiss Combeferre, especially not minutes before he has a date with someone else.

Why didn't Combeferre push him away, or demand to know what he was doing? Because he's too damn nice, Courfeyrac decides. It'll make things awkward if they acknowledge it so he probably won't, not unless Courfeyrac does first. Courfeyrac is so not going to do that. He's going to crawl into bed, wallow over the fact that the guy he's so, so into is going out with someone else, and forget all about the lapse of judgment that made him kiss Combeferre.

That's what he does, heading for the bed, but he doesn't manage to get to sleep until he hears Enjolras wish Combeferre good luck and the front door open and close shut behind him.

Courfeyrac sighs to himself and buries his face in his pillow.

 

-o-

 

Courfeyrac startles from his sleep when someone knocks at the door. This time he groans, rolling over, and blinks up at the ceiling even if he can't see it in the dark. "Come in," he grumbles, half-asleep and not in the mood to talk.

"Courfeyrac?" Combeferre's voice is quiet, hesitant, like he's aware that Courfeyrac was sleeping and he doesn't want to disturb.

"Hey," Courfeyrac says, forcing himself to sit up. "What's up? How was— how'd your date go?" His eyes catch on his alarm clock, on the glowing red  _9:07_ , and he's suddenly instantly alert. "What happened? Why are you back so early?"

"We both decided halfway through dinner that it'd be best to leave as friends," Combeferre says, flicking on the light. His hair is perfectly styled, something he must have done after Courfeyrac left him, but the blazer is gone and his tie is hanging loose from around his neck. "Can I sit?"

"Of course." Courfeyrac pushes his comic onto the ground without care and moves over to make room.

There's a hesitant grin tugging at Combeferre's lips when he sits down on the edge of the bed, and his hands are folded neatly in his lap. "You helped me into this wonderful outfit for my date," he says, gaze on his hands.

"And you look great," Courfeyrac promises. "Whether your date sucked or not."

"Thank you," Combeferre says. "But I was wondering if perhaps you'd like to help me out of it?"

Courfeyrac's eyes widen, certain he heard that wrong. There's no way Combeferre actually said that. But his eyebrows are raised expectantly and his gaze is steady with Courfeyrac's, unwavering, and apparently he did.

"Smooth," Courfeyrac says, proud of how calm he sounds. He reaches out, tugging at Combeferre's tie. "I don't see how your date could have possibly gone badly with moves like that."

"Maybe I wanted it to go badly," Combeferre confesses.

Courfeyrac searches his eyes for a moment, just to be sure, and then, softly, says, "Maybe I did too."

Courfeyrac comes to regret putting Combeferre in the button-up shirt, if only because it's difficult to get him out of it when Combeferre is leaning over him, kissing at his neck later on.

**Author's Note:**

> Really sorry if there are any spelling mistakes or anything like that. I read it over twice but I might have missed something. D:


End file.
